


Moccus

by silvered



Category: Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28138917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvered/pseuds/silvered
Summary: "He has a vulgar streak, I don't mind it."During the long  dying days of the Gaulish campaign, Caesar and Antony find ways to keep each other going.
Relationships: Mark Antony/Julius Caesar
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Moccus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arysteia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysteia/gifts).



> Moccus is a Gaulish pig-god! 
> 
> Hello recipient, I was so excited to match on this! Like you, I love Antony a lot, he's my favourite character in the whole series. I wanted to write him from Caesar POV because I love their relationship so much, and you really only see Caesar POV of Antony a couple of times the whole series and it's fascinating! I hope this gets what you like about it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this, and have a restful holiday season however you celebrate. ♥

People always looked at Caesar, so he was careful about where his own eyes lingered. Too much attention drew jealousy, resentment and whispers. Too little and Posca murmured to him that the subject of his inattention was feeling cast out and unwanted, two things that a well-run unit cannot afford to let fester.

This was precisely why Caesar liked Antony. Oh, there were other reasons too; his simple animal instinct for fighting; his reputation among the men; and the fact that he was loyal to his core in a way that he wasn’t with anyone else. Above all, he was easy to draw in or step back from as Caesar needed. Antony took Caesar’s attention when he got it and occupied himself otherwise when he didn’t. He was gloriously uncomplicated, though Brutus, not without a tinge of envy, considered him vulgar and boorish.

Caesar laughed quietly into his cup. He would never see Antony the way he saw Brutus or vice versa, and that mattered only a little to Antony but it was much more important to Brutus.

“He has a vulgar streak,” Caesar said, watching the flicker of warmth cool in Brutus’s eyes across the table, “but I don’t mind it.”

It was true. Antony did what was necessary, in his half-lazy always-aggressive way, and Caesar could not fault him for it. Occasionally Posca would raise his eyebrows and mutter about some extravagance, or a drinking and fucking contest with some local women, or some gold that had been diverted somewhere unexpected. Caesar noted it all for later use but didn’t use it. Antony was doing well in Gaul, and well for Caesar, and that was what mattered. Any future discipline could wait until after the Triumph. Until then, he kept Antony on a loose rein.

One evening, after a disappointing supper, Caesar had turned to his campaign notes, but his mind swam with numbers and movements and he decided to set aside the evening’s work for the time being. His camp was huge and teeming with people, and he found it useful to occasionally show his face to the ordinary rank and file. Too much, and they grew complacent, but too little and they were liable to forget who they served. With a few words to Posca, who was accustomed to such whims, they went out into the inky night, dotted with fires and lights from nearby tents.

There was a roar of sound coming from one tent that immediately drew Caesar’s attention, and he looked at Posca, who shrugged. What could possibly be causing such a racket? Caesar wondered, as he pushed his way inside, smiling tightly at the young soldier who admitted him, mouth agape.

Inside, the air was hot with smoke, sweat and the smells of various foods – Caesar picked out rabbit, a staple of the campaign diet. The tables were packed with men clustered together, all of whom were looking in one direction, so his entrance went unnoticed.

Antony was standing on top of a table, walking down the rows of cheering faces, swinging the boar’s severed head back and forth. He was daubed in the creature’s blood, the shade matched the soldiers’ cloaks almost exactly. Occasionally he’d shake the head hard enough for some viscera to douse the soldiers, but they didn’t care, Caesar noticed. They treated the effluence as though it was gold from Mars himself.

Antony hadn’t noticed Caesar and Posca yet. He waved his hand, the one not grasping the boar’s ears, for quiet, and the tables immediately fell silent. Antony ran a hand streaked in boar’s blood back through his hair dramatically, daubing his hairline with gore, clearly enjoying his moment.

“After we’d finished tracking the Gauls, we were on our way back to camp and heard this _rustling_ in a thicket.”

Antony stilled and made his eyes dart about; Caesar saw some of the soldiers nearest to him smile.

“My horse shied and cast me off, right on my arse. I was grasping for my spear when all of a sudden this ugly bastard,” here Antony thrust the boar’s head forward once more, “broke out of the thicket and started snorting and pawing the ground.”

He looked down for a minute, allowing his face to grow grave, and then said, completely deadpan.

“Almost shat myself.”

The soldiers, who had been listening carefully, laughed.

“It charged at me but I rolled out of its way. Saw its balls hanging down near my face, big dangly ones like…,”

Here Antony broke off to gesture at his own crotch. Caesar felt Posca looking at him, but he ignored him.

“He was an ugly brute as well, haven’t seen a face that bad since the last time I ran into Cato.”

The soldiers laughed as Antony affected the posture of an old man and contorted his face grotesquely. Caesar felt Posca’s aggrieved sigh hit his cheek, but he kept ignoring him.

“So my spear’s on the ground, and I’m starting to feel Mars has cursed me when I remember, my sword!”

The laughter had died down again as Antony slowed down and adapted seriousness once more.

“I made my way away from the fucker, so as not to provoke him, but he’s pawing the ground and snorting…”

“Sounds more like a bull,” Posca murmured, with venom.

“And the same time I get my sword loose, I’m distracted by the fucker lifting its tail and shitting, all over my fucking spear!”

Antony thrust his sword arm in an exaggerated gesture of rage, and growled round at the audience, face twisted in feigned fury. Caesar had seen the man at the height of anger before, and he supposed Antony was nothing if not self-aware.

“I close the distance between us, and jab piggy at the back of his head. It squeals like a woman being fucked,” thankfully Antony did not treat them to some pumping gestures, “and releases a mess of shit and guts all over my feet.”

The soldiers, rapt with attention, groan and then laugh as Antony acts out his distress.

“Still though, I prevailed, and that’s what I came here before you to tell you.”

The tent’s flimsy walls flapped with the cheers of the crowd, and Antony smiled smugly and looked around at his adoring public. It was then he locked eyes with Caesar.

Antony didn’t betray a single second of doubt, but it was not like Caesar to seek out company with his soldiers of an evening. Caesar knew his own face was unreadable, and a single thought floated serenely across the surface of his mind as he and Antony gazed at each other.

 _Tribune of the Plebs_.

Back in his own tent, Caesar attended to his letters and had been bathed and dressed. Posca worked quietly in the corner, occasionally asking Caesar to clarify some point or taking him a missive to read. Posca was like an old mother hen to him, Caesar sometimes felt, always clucking with disapproval or fussing over him, but he was always wise when Caesar asked him for counsel. He had freed Posca in his will, but he needed him while he was in the land of the living.

“General Antony wishes to enter,” the slave guarding his door said, and Caesar looked up. He rolled up his final letter and sealed it with wax before handing it to Posca.

“Tell him to come in,” he told both slaves, “and your duties are done until the morning,” he added to Posca.

He didn’t have to look at Posca to see the expression on his face, and he saw the surprise in Antony’s face as Posca whipped out of the tent, and then the slight smirk as they heard Posca ordering the guards to not disturb Caesar at any cost.

Antony grabbed a grape from Caesar’s table; he was far too comfortable, Caesar thought, but he preferred to let this play out and see where it went. Brutus had complained about Antony’s manner around him – the easy, frequent touches; the way Antony casually helped himself to Caesar’s food and drink; the inappropriate _warmth_. Part of it was simple patrician distaste, Caesar knew; few families were as grand and legendary as the Junii. But there was jealousy there too. Brutus and Caesar were more akin to a father and son, but Caesar and Antony?

Something that a father and son could never have.

Caesar felt himself stir at the thought.

Antony had poured himself a cup of Caesar’s wine and was savouring it. Caesar let his eyes linger briefly on the long, dark eyelashes, the curl of the lip tinged red with wine, the strong fingers gripping the cup. Although he was sure that he was subtle in his admiration, he was just as sure that Antony was aware of it. If anyone was attuned to the more animalistic senses, it would be Antony. He cleared his throat.

“You wanted to see me?”

Antony finished his wine and smiled briefly, dark eyes creased. He threw an arm back behind his head and stretched before answering.

“Have you finished your campaign writing for the night?”

“Yes,” Caesar said, watching him. He had given Antony an unusually flattering writeup that he would have to redo later, when his blood was not so hotted up. He thought of Antony on top of the table, holding the boar’s head up like some kind of heathen god, sweaty and bloody and viscerally _alive_.

His cock stirred again.

“Good,” Antony said, “hope you had lots of suitable praise for me.” He smiled; Caesar let his lips twitch briefly but his eyes remained motionless.

“Why are you here, General Antony?”

“Did you know the Gauls worship a boar god?”

“Do they?”

“Yes,” Antony said, mouth twisted with derision. “Worshipping pigs, what a joke, and it’s a war god for them too! No wonder we’re making progress here.”

“After how many years?” Caesar said mildly, though he watched the smirk drop off Antony’s face, and was satisfied.

“Fine, fine. That’s what they told me, the slaves we captured, that it’s worshipped for war…and fertility.”

“Like Mars,” Caesar said.

“Tttch!” Antony snorted, shaking his head. “Mars is a deity you can be proud of, he’s not some fucking… _pig_.”

“And yet the boar was quite a challenge for you,” Caesar observed. “Many men would have perished in the same situation.”

Antony inclined his head wryly, the smirk reappeared.

“Well I must defer to your superior judgement.”

Now Caesar allowed himself a brief smile, and watched Antony respond to it, relaxing in his chair. He was so easy to read, Antony, and yet, Caesar respected the essential honesty of the man when it came down to it. He was strong, resourceful, and loyal to the bone. It was not for nothing that Antony stood behind him in ceremonies, like the figure of Mars made flesh.

 _And what flesh it was too_ , Caesar thought, thinking of Antony’s strong arms and legs twined with hard muscles. Yes, it was time. They had been in Gaul so long and he had sampled whores whenever he wanted them…but it was Antony’s animalistic charms that drew him back again and again, though he would never admit it. It was best to keep Antony at arm’s length, and only engage with him on these terms very occasionally. It wouldn’t do for him to get ideas above his station.

“I liked seeing you on the table, with the boar’s head,” Caesar said, and Antony’s eyes widened. They had travelled, fought and spent countless hours together, and such unconcealed praise from Caesar was rare and they both knew it.

Now Antony smiled and set down his cup, now he leaned forward a little.

“I have not often seen you come to the tent with the men. It was unexpected.”

“Crude, but effective, in its way,” Caesar allowed, and Antony smiled.

“Me all over, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Caesar said, looking at him. He could feel Antony’s hot breath across the table, and knew if he looked down he would see Antony hard beneath his tunic. He could choose to take him or leave him, and at that moment, looking into the face of his brutal war-god, Caesar chose. He pulled Antony across the table and kissed him. For a moment, he thought of the figure of the golden eagle above and behind them, and the moment threatened to overwhelm him.

Antony responded fast, pulling himself atop the table and down, til he was pressing Caesar back in his chair, breath hot on Caesar’s face. He was pulling his tunic over his head and off, while Caesar touched himself lightly and gazed at Antony’s skin. It was full of fresh small cuts and wounds from Antony’s fight with the boar, and beneath that older scars from battles past.

“I don’t do this with anyone else,” Antony said, sinking into Caesar’s lap as Caesar pulled Antony’s cock in his hand and watched his face.

“Good,” Caesar said, as he dipped his fingers into a jug of oil that had sat with his dinner. He watched Antony eye the glistening fingers, then Antony leaned forward and sucked the oil from them. His mouth was hot and greedy, his lips tightened around the joints of Caesar’s fingers, and Antony smiled.

“Beast,” Caesar said, not without some enjoyment, as he oiled his fingers again. This time, he slid them gently into Antony, probing and sliding, and Antony groaned into his mouth and ground hard against Caesar.

When he judged Antony was ready, Caesar pushed his tunic aside and Antony sank heavily onto his cock, pushing him back against the table. Caesar bit his shoulder and Antony exhaled sharply; another mark to go with the rest. His free hand found Antony’s cock once more and he felt it slick and hard and responsive.

He came inside Antony with barely a sound, but Antony had to bite his own fist to stop from crying out. Old soldier’s habit, Caesar thought, or possibly an adulterer’s. Neither surprised him. Antony collapsed astride him, dark hair damp and with his semen and sweat staining Caesar’s tunic. Caesar watched him, allowing his own breathing to resume at a normal pace.

Caesar had shed the stained tunic, and swapped it for a fresh one as Antony composed himself. When he turned around, he half-expected Antony to be gone, but instead he was waiting by the flap of the tent.

“I’ve given my boar to the butchers…you get first refusal.”

Caesar thought about it. This far into the campaign they were mainly living off rabbits, and whatever fish the slaves brought in from rivers. Boar would be _different_.

“Yes, have them bring it to my table.”

“Good. They do say it’s delicious with garum, lovage, that sort of thing,” Antony waved his hand about dismissively, “domestic work, you know.”

Caesar remained silent, and watched him. Antony smiled briefly, as he realised that was all that there would be, and left without saying anything more.

Posca would be back as soon as he saw Antony go, he realised. He felt awake and wondered if he could write a bit more. Perhaps he could write something more about the customs of the Gauls, and their curious gods.


End file.
